


Silver Linings

by salthien



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-12-15 22:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salthien/pseuds/salthien
Summary: A WoL/Exarch ficlet collection, spanning the time from the Crystal Tower quests to past the end of Shadowbringers; some are specific to my WoL, some are generic WoL. Fics will be marked individually for rating and content.





	1. seams and scars - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting off with a helping of bittersweet! Post-Shadowbringers, rated T, generic male WoL, he/him pronouns. A bit headcanon-laced, and light spoilers for the physical DPS role quest.

“This one?”

“Which-- oh. That… Sohm Al, perhaps. Or the Aery. Either way - dragon claws, nasty things. Full glad am I that they’re on our side now.”

“And these?”

“Imperial gunblades, Ala Mhigo. I underestimated their range.”

Raha hums, smoothing his palm over the pockmarked scars and reciting their origins as his hand wanders - heretics, Heavens’ Ward, imperials on every continent, primals and beastmen. The Warrior left not a single fight without some reminder of it, macabre mementos gathered one after another, ‘till not a single place upon him remained that did not tell the sort of story that history books would not write, whether out of ignorance or embellishment of a hero’s great deeds.

“Do they ache?”

“Sometimes. Some… Usually the ones you can’t see.” His hand finds Raha’s, brings it to his left hip and settles there. “Popped right out of its socket when Shinryu fell. Still threatens to do it again sometimes, and it aches in the cold.”

“I see.” Raha says, and turns his head to kiss at the man’s chest. “And how do you ease it? A poultice, a salve?” His mind is already working at it, picking over ingredients both Vrandtic and Source in origin that might soothe a wound so deep. “Spagyrics can provide such things, while you are here with us.”

“I don’t. Most of the time, anyway. It’s just… something to ignore, I suppose. I don’t think about it.”

“Then let me think about it for you. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

“Says the man who worked himself to exhaustion so often that Lyna is more known in Spagyrics for _your _needs than her own. Pot, meet kettle.”

Raha lets out a huff, turning his face into the Warrior’s shoulder. Rather than give his own hypocrisy any further thought, he finds another scar and lifts his hand to it, tracing the ragged edges near the edge of the man’s chest and over his ribs.

“What about this one?”

The man is silent for a long moment; his brow furrows in deep concentration. The silence stretches long, even for the Warrior of Light's standards.

“Is aught amiss, my love?” Raha prompts.

“...It’s… Not mine.”

“Not yours?” A russet ear flicks. Concerned, Raha lifts his eyes to meet the Warrior’s as the man shakes his head.

“No, it’s…” Lapsing into another brief silence, the Warrior’s brows furrow even more, eyes closing. “You recall my ghostly visitor? How Ardbert helped me stand, there at the end?”

“I do.” It was not a story Raha was like to forget. Nor would he soon forget the relief he’d felt at seeing the man rise from where he’d collapsed atop the facade of that ruined star, hale and whole in such a spectacle of light that for a few precious moments even the summoning incantation had been lost to him.

“I don’t know how, but it’s _his._ His, from before the Flood.” The Warrior’s voice is high in his throat, words tinged with disbelief. “Balam-Quitz. Nearly gored him… gored _me_, on its horns. He - I… We? Gods - _we_ were lucky it was a glancing blow.”

“And you remember this?” Raha can't help the way his eyes go wide with curiosity.

“If I concentrate. It’s like the Echo, but… different. The memories don’t ache.”

“As if they were your own?” The Warrior nods, and Raha purses his lips, deep in thought. A singular Rejoining, like souls coming together as one _without_ the aid of a Calamity, was unprecedented - thus while _incredible_, the scar’s presence and the memories associated were far from unbelievable. “Far be it from me to suggest we pry further into the man’s waking moments, but…”

“He never afforded _me_ that kindness.” The laugh that follows is fond, almost _sad_, this time. “But?”

“Ardbert and his compatriots are not remembered fondly by the First. If it falls to us to carry their memory… I would not see their sacrifice lost to the annals of history so soon.”

“Us?”

“Indeed. We must needs study the phenomenon, anyhow - and should you choose to, I would hear much and more of Ardbert’s tales alongside your own.” Raha smiles gently, laying a kiss to the Warrior’s jaw. “If you would grant me the honor.” It is the least he can do, he thinks, for the man who’d made the very sacrifice that Raha had all but resigned himself to. His hand settles over the Warrior’s heart, the thrum of his voice a comfort beneath his Spoken palm.

“All of our stories are yours, Raha. You need only ask.”


	2. convenience - E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Shadowbringers, Explicit, generic WoL, they/them pronouns. Because _why not_.

There is no better use of the tower’s palatial baths than this, Raha is _ sure_. His careful teasing, calculated touches and knowing smiles, are well-rewarded at last as the Warrior _ finally _rises to the bait, pinning him against one golden-filigreed edge of the basin to kiss him senseless. One hand threads through their hair as they mouth at his jaw, the other finding their hip - but before he can turn the tide, to take what he had orchestrated into his own hands, they dip beneath the shifting surface of the water, pulling him flush to them until only his head remains above.

They’ve been submerged for nearly a minute, dragging open-mouthed kisses along his chest, when Raha starts to marvel; at the two minute mark _ marvel _ begins to morph into _ worry_, even with the Warrior’s hands pressing his thighs apart. For their part, they seem entirely unconcerned. In fact, they're positively _ languid, _ though they’ve been holding their breath for - as far as Raha can estimate - the better part of _ four _ when at last they set their mouth between Raha’s legs proper. The heated line Warrior’s tongue draws along the length of him renders the bathwater chill by comparison, but his lover is still _ not breathing. _ Though they are surely far from drowning,Raha has little intent to let the Warrior’s endearing, incorrigible eagerness inadvertently ruin the moment.

“My love, you’re not-” He bites off the sound he _ wants _ to make as lips close around him, jaw a tight line as he exhales that breath instead. “You need to _ breathe_, I can - we can - move-” Either the Warrior cannot or does not want to hear, because their attentions continue unabated. It takes a _firm _tug of the hand in their hair for the Warrior's gaze to rise from the task at hand, and for Raha to hurriedly pull at one of their arms. “Come up, _ please_.”

The Warrior rises slowly, expression already drawn into a concerned frown before they even breach the pool’s surface. Water spills from between their lips as they speak, the words strangely clipped and breaths oddly shallow.

“I’m sorry, I heard you - say something but I didn’t - are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not in the least.” Raha is quick to shake his head. “But _ you _ seemed to forget yourself under there. Your single-mindedness is enchanting, but... please, do not forget to _ breathe _on my account.” He smiles, taking the Warrior’s hand from his thigh to clasp it in his crystal palm. “There are shallower places in the basin where this might be easier, we-”

“Raha,” The name alone is enough to silence him, damp ears canting forward to catch it. Fond amusement reigns in their tone. “Is that all?”

“If _ that _is ensuring you don’t drown…” An exaggeration, perhaps. He’s always had a flair for the dramatic. “Then yes.”

A withheld laugh shakes their scarred shoulders. Wordlessly, they pull Raha’s hand to their chest and settle it there. Then they lower themself, the bath overtaking chin and mouth and nose until all that remains above are a pair of striking eyes, their hair a weightless halo about their face.

The steady stream of bubbles that Raha expects is gone in a few moments. Then, his confusion gives way to dumbfounded _wonder_ as he feels the Warrior’s chest expand beneath his palm. The motion is deliberate, as slow on the inhale as it is on the exhale. They breathe performatively a few more times for effect - breathe in, hold, breathe out. Raha lifts his hand, sets his fingers beneath the cut of their jaw to feel the push and pull of water over his wrist that accompanies each breath.

“Wicked _ white_.” The sudden current over Raha’s palm suggests a laugh, as does the gleam in their eyes. “Where in the world did you learn this?”

They rise from the pool only enough to speak unobscured; again, the words are accompanied by a mouthful of water, and Raha realizes belatedly why their speech and breath had seemed so short just a moment ago.

“Kojin. Not important. Can I-” They interrupt themself with a deep cough, another rivulet spilling past their lips. “Sorry. The transition is rough. May I continue?” Far from truly impatient, the question is soft-spoken and accompanies a pleased little grin.

“Provided you regale me with that tale soon...” Raha drags his thumb across the Warrior’s cheek, scritches once beneath their chin as the Warrior nods. “Pray do not allow me to delay you any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at my twitter scream hole [@salthien](http://twitter.com/salthien)!


	3. they stir, and then— - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Shadowbringers, rated T, generic WoL, they/them pronouns. Even Warriors dream.

Raha isn’t sure what wakes him; there is no sudden jolt of awareness, no clear sound to rouse him from gentle slumber. He only knows that one moment, he is asleep, and the next he is staring up at the vaulted ceilings of his bedchambers, still wrapped in soft furs against the chill of the Tower. Yet slow to proper waking, it is another few beats before the arm slung over his waist registers, the quiet breathing beside him.

A sound reaches his ears, finally. Faint, but close - one russet ear turns against the downy pillow in search of its source, and as the rest of him follows he finds his chin near buried in a familiar head of hair. The Warrior, yet fast asleep beside him, makes another small sound in the back of their throat. He feels their arm curl further around him, the way their leg shifts partway over both of his and is unable to help the dopey smile that spreads across his lips. Even Warriors dream, it seems, though this is the first he’s caught them at it.

“Raha-”

Spoken so, barely above a whisper and _ pleading,_ the name on the sleeping Warrior’s lips is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks. It disarms him, leaves him unprepared for the way they shift closer, hand stretched along the bed behind him and pressed along his side from chest to hip. His hand hovers above one shoulder, cradled as they are against his forearm - he is caught between allowing them their rest, and a sudden interest in sussing out _ exactly _ what they might be dreaming about, if only to ensure a _ most _satisfying conclusion to whatever their sleeping mind had conjured up.

“Raha, _ please_-” 

A few moments longer, Raha thinks, selfishly curious at how far the dream would take them - their leg shifts again, hard enough this time to knock their heel against his calf, and he winces. That hand is still grasping behind him, pinning him against the mattress as it searches. _ For what_, he wonders, and pulls his chin back that he might catch a glimpse of their expression. Their face is scrunched, a deep furrow carved between their brows; mayhap he is a tease even in the realm of sleepy intimacy.

“_Don’t-” _

Instantly his thoughts come to a wheeling halt in his sudden attempt to backpedal - he would _ not_, would _ never_, and it is only the sudden, jarring dissonance between his idle fancy and the apparent reality that keeps him from shaking them awake then and there. That grasping hand of theirs looses, falls to curl around his body instead of reach _ past _ him. The rest of their body goes limp as they make another broken, choked-off sound behind closed lips. They are _ crying_, he realizes, tears gathering at the corners of their eyes and rolling down the bridge of their nose, their cheeks. This is what frees him from his stupor, what guides his hand to push a lock of hair back from their forehead.

“Shh, shh - wake, my Warrior, please. You’re only dreaming.”

He aches to kiss them, to press his lips to the furrow between their brows and cast the specter of himself that haunts their dreams from them, in whatever form he’s taken. But until he knows _ how _, until they know they are safe - he resigns himself to the gentle touches, waking them with the coolness of his crystal palm at their cheek.

They wake bleary-eyed and shuddering, emotion rising to the surface where it had been paralyzed in sleep, and drag him to them roughly with that arm still looped around his waist. With their strength, they knock the wind from him in one fell motion.

“Raha, _ stop _ \- come _ back _ ...” And all at once it crystallizes, clear as day even as awareness seems to seep into their words. _ Oh_.

“I’m right here. I promise. the Tower is open, and we are safe.”

He had had the dreams, too. A choking mire of Black Rose, Light’s eerie stillness casting long shadows over the ruins of - Revenant's Toll - Rhalgr’s Reach - Ishgard - the Enclave - the Tower itself - and at the heart of it they lay. They would not wake, and it was so easy to convince himself they were _ sleeping_, just asleep in the wreckage of the world and if he could simply shout _ loud enough_\- 

Biggs III and the rest had never mentioned it, but he’d known they’d heard after he woke with his voice worn raw and hoarse in sleep, and all the quieter for the way the dream had sunk its claws in him for bells, suns after. Even on the First it had not abated. But here, _ now _ \- this, he can quell, can allow them the comfort of something other than an empty tent and a hollow ache in their chest.

For once his Tower-given gifts are naught but a blessing, and he pulls them to him with ease as he settles back. They are still crying, even as their gaze finally focuses on him, and they seem just as eager to be drawn into his arms and cradled against him. Their arm remains, a sturdy weight now at his side, as much an anchor for the Warrior as it is reassurance for Raha that they are no worse for wear.

“Sorry, I- gods-” They lift their head from the crook of his neck just enough to wipe uselessly at the tear-stained crystal of his collarbone with their wrist, then at their own face when that proves a fruitless endeavor. “Nightmare. Just a nightmare. That one I haven’t - it’s been awhile, I…” And there they trail off, but the unintentional confession is a swift knife wedged between crystalline ribs. Guilt threatens heavy and dark at a corner of his mind - to be dealt with _ later_, he decides just as swiftly. To be addressed when the Warrior is not sat with their legs across his, eyes downcast and fresh tear-tracks still damp upon their cheeks. He tucks his Spoken hand beneath their chin, a silent request for their attention that they grant.

“Settle, my love. No apologies. I’m here - take your comfort however you wish. I am yours.” _ However you wish _ seems all the invitation they need to rise, to knock their forehead into his. The motion is surely meant gently, but in their daze bumps nose against nose, garners a gruff “Ow,” and a weak chuckle from them. Their hand lifts to splay across his chest, against the line of crystal that runs over his heart.

“This helps, I think.” Fingers curl against crystal. “Am I too heavy?”

“Not at all.” He glances down to himself, to where they lie atop him, then back up with a faint smile. "Would that I were a more comfortable pillow."

That earns him a quiet laugh, a kiss to the corner of his mouth - oh, how he aches for more, but what follows is nearly as satisfying and just as sweet as they bend and lie against him. They cradle their head against his chest, the shell of their ear lined up to the steady rhythm of his still-beating heart.

“It’s slower.” They murmur, measures later and far more relaxed than before. For Raha, it is some kind of miracle that something so simple as his own heartbeat - plodding along to the rhythm of the Tower that has superimposed itself over the whole of him - has eased the specter of the nightmare from their thoughts. 

“‘Tis old and scarred and not what it once was, I’m afraid.”

“‘Tis _ yours_.” They counter immediately, turning their head to press their lips to the seam of skin and crystal.

If the Warrior notices the way his heart leaps, bounding suddenly against that marrow-deep rhythm it normally keeps, they say nothing. They merely lay back once more against him, ear still cupped to his chest. Sleep, normally so hard to come by and turned away at every opportunity, is now a siren song with the Warrior tucked against him; though his self-imposed vigil lasts well after their breathing slows and evens out, sleep finds him easily when his eyes at last fall shut.


	4. and he kissed me ‘till the morning light - T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crystal Tower era through post-Shadowbringers; rated T, generic WoL, they/them pronouns. Inspired by and fully intended to menace the [Mayor of Rahaington](http://twitter.com/astormcalled) himself.
> 
> [5:55 PM] Forgiven Battle Boner (Arren): Prompt: Raha had even longer hair after waking up from his long nap.

It  _ would  _ be his first day of proper exploration within Syrcus that the Twelve would conspire against him, G’raha thinks. It would be this day that the tent chose swallow up what was, ostensibly, the easiest part of his morning routine, leaving him digging through his meagre belongings for a  _ single godsdamned hair tie _ for the better part of a quarter-bell, before-

“G’raha!” A sharp rap at one tentpole makes him startle and glance toward the tent’s entrance, just in time for the Warrior of Light to lift the canvas flap aside enough to poke their head in. “Almost ready?”

“Nearly there!” G’raha drops the lid of the chest with a loud  _ thunk _ and the Warrior winces - so much for keeping calm in the face of the unknown. He’s practically  _ manic _ . The anticipatory anxiety pooling in his gut has his tail carving an agitated path behind him, only stilling once he catches the Warrior’s eyes following the movement. “I’ve misplaced - ah, nothing of import. Are the rest prepared for our ascent?”

“Aye - they’re waiting at the bridge.” They frown, and before he can reassure them again, his words are briefly stymied as they step into the tent proper. “Are  _ you _ alright? You look…”

“A mess?” Russet ears tip back, embarrassment warming G’raha’s cheeks, but his smile remains. He will  _ not  _ have the Warrior keep him cooped up in camp this go-’round, lest Rammbroes and the other Sons demand him out of Mor Dhona entirely. “‘Tis a fair assessment, but I’ve all I need for my research, I assure you.” He pats at the satchels about his waist, then reaches up, sweeps a few stray strands of hair behind his shoulder. It’s bothersome, but manageable - but the Warrior, ever observant, catches that movement too, raises a questioning brow at it.

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on wearing it down today.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Oh, he is  _ incorrigible  _ and he knows it, his smile morphing into something more impish as the Warrior advances a few more steps. “I thought it a rather  _ dashing  _ look, given the grand adventure we’re off to today.” G’raha wants to call it  _ exasperated _ , the look on their face, wants to memorize this look as much as any other because he has never found someone so satisfying to terrorize as the vaunted Warrior of Light. It has nothing at all to do with the fondness he wants to imagine he sees in their smile, the gentle sigh that escapes them music to his ears.

“Because I’ll not have an Acheron cart you off by your  _ hair _ on my watch, G’raha. Here-” They close the last few steps between them, offering precious little time for G’raha to prepare before they take his shoulders in their hands, turn him gently away from them. He complies dumbly, and tries to keep the shiver from his shoulders as their hand skates across his nape and pulls the locks into one hand. “You’ve a tie on you?”

“N-- Nay. I misplaced it. ‘Twas why I left it down.” The truth out at last, he can feel the Warrior chuckle where their wrist lays against the lining of his vest.

“You’re lucky I come prepared.” There’s a brief shuffle of cloth, and then he feels them sectioning the length of his hair out into a haphazard braid; his eyes fall shut against his will as his world narrows, briefly, to those deft fingers combing through the locks from ear to end, coaxing them into place. His lips are a tight line to keep from embarrassing himself further, but he wants nothing more than to press against those hands, to savor this easy intimacy they offer him.

The braid is secured  _ far  _ too quickly for G’raha’s liking, and then he is bereft of touch once more. It takes the Warrior prompting him with a tap at his shoulder for him to turn back around. Curious, he reaches up and back, pulls the braid forward just far enough that he can see the tie - a thin strip of cloth, the color a perfect match for the accents of their armor. They shrug as he makes the connection, gaze flitting from the braid to their chestpiece to their eyes, finally.

“‘Tis what I had on hand - I hope you can forgive the color clash.”

“I… believe I can manage that much.” He tucks the braid back once more, offers the Warrior a warm grin that they return immediately. Warmth blooms in his chest and he cannot help the sentiment that follows, storybook-dramatic as he is wont to be. “Thank you, my friend. I will consider it a good luck charm, freely given as it is.” A pause. “Provided you do not expect it  _ back _ -”

“Keep it. It suits you.” The Warrior laughs, a gentle sound, and motions toward the exit. “Can’t test its luck today if we dawdle, though. We’d best away before the other adventurers get too restless and make for Syrcus on their own.”

“By all means, lead the way!” He tucks the affection, the longing for those gentle hands somewhere deep down, beneath the burgeoning excitement that is much more easily addressed.

\---

Later - moons later, bestowed blood thrumming in his veins as he  _ feels _ the last of the Sons pass the threshold of the gate - he reaches up to the tie, runs his fingers anxiously along the length of cloth. He prays for its luck  _ fervently _ , now, that it might make the parting easier. A token from his guiding star, to cherish in that long-awaited future.

\---

He cups his hands around a dented tin mug, its warmth seeping into the perpetual chill that had seeped into the heart of him during the stasis. Even the blanket draped over his shoulders does little to beat back the chill, and he shivers again at the bone-deep cold.

The tent’s entrance opens to his left, and in steps a familiar wall of a man. Biggs - the Third, he appends. The  _ Third, the Third, the Third _ , and G’raha resolves not to seek out the striking similarities between himself and his ancestor that G’raha had, by his own measure, bid farewell to but suns prior.

“The lot what found you are keepin’ at that console you found. Still nothin’ to report in there far as logs go, save this.” Still unable to look directly at the man, G’raha instead follows the motion of Biggs’ hand as it reaches between them and drops something to the table before him. “Didn’t seem anythin’ important, but thought you might look at it, in case.”

A thin strip of cloth in a familiar color remains, once Biggs’ hand withdraws. G’raha swallows heavily, sets the mug down to reach for it with both hands.

“A token.” He says in a voice rough from disuse. “...’Twas naught but a sentimental scrap, but… my deepest thanks, Biggs. You know not how much it means to me.”

Memory, rising unbidden to the surface of his thoughts - soft fingers at his nape, brushing back the tufts at his ears as they pull loose strands into place. He shudders, and it is not the cold that does it this time. Biggs watches, concern in his great dark eyes.

“Y’alright, lad?”

“Just fine.” G’raha slips the heavy blanket from his shoulders, exposes the long, untidy mane the Tower had not seen fit to pause the way it had the rest of his body. He pulls it up in one fist, drags his fingers along his own jaw and beneath his ears until the loose strands are caught up behind his head - even like this it reaches past the base of his tail, and the chill of the night air that filters into the tent drags another full-bodied shiver from him.

“Can get that cut for ye’, if ye’ need. We’ve a few knives about.”

“Mayhap in a bit. I’m afraid I have dwelled too long in memory for today - I would take my rest now, if I may. Thank you again, Biggs.” Sleep is the  _ last  _ thing he wants, but his body aches for it still - it has been a process, surfacing from centuries of slumber, and a part of him yet clings to the dreamless sleep of stasis.

But sleep here is not dreamless; that night he is visited by the same memory, hands at his shoulders, hands at his nape, hands at his neck going ice-cold until he wakes gasping for breath.

\---

The babe does not speak, young as she is and in such an unfamiliar place; her eyes watch his beneath the hood with uncanny sharpness, though he is sure she cannot see his own. He adjusts her place at his hip, and she braces one small hand against the ornamentation at his collar as the other reaches up, near his jaw.

“Oh?” He prompts, stilling to allow her exploration - though the glamour would assure the hood’s protection against her wandering hands, it seems that isn’t her intended target, and she takes a fistful of silvered locks hanging loose near his collar and pulls it gently. Her large ears twist forward as his head follows the motion. “Indeed, I’ve hair just like yours.”

He lets her have her fill of inspecting it, the first sign of her genuine interest in him far too endearing to discourage; he knows it is not meant to last, though, if he means to maintain his secrecy. The simple cloth tie would not be enough anymore.

\---

“Milord, the Warrior has sent word - it is as you had expected. Lord Vauthry,  _ Lightwarden _ , has fled Eulmore.”

“Then this is it.” His fingers tighten ‘round the staff, thankful for the harsh light of the Ocular’s portal to disguise his white-knuckled grip.

“It would seem so. Shall I notify the guard of your departure?”

“Notify and reallocate. Not a soul is to step beyond the Dossal Gate once you depart the Ocular, under any circumstances.” He pauses on a breath in, allows Lyna a moment to question him that she mercifully does not take. “Save the Warrior of Darkness, should they seek it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Completely.”

“Then - you are free to carry out your duties.” He considers, for a moment, letting the hood fall. Letting her gaze meet his properly. But she salutes, then turns on a heel toward the door of the Ocular, and his old, scarred heart aches. 

“And Lyna-”

“Yes, milord?”

“Thank you. ‘Tis good knowing the Crystarium is in safe hands whilst I am away.”

“Of course.” She smiles over her shoulder - a faint thing, but it warms him. Lyna has never needed luck; would that he were so fortunate. His fingers itch to soothe themselves at the thin, faded strip of cloth at his nape.

\---

“You’re beautiful, you know?”

Despite the fact that the Warrior seems hell-bent on ensuring his cheeks are  _ permanently  _ stained red, G’raha’s heart knows no better than to skip a beat at the words, a sudden staccato rhythm against crystalline ribs. He smiles, letting his thumb fall into the crease of the old tome and turns to where the Warrior is pressed to his side and propped up by pillows at the headboard, brushing his nose against theirs.

“Ware your affections; I may just melt if you keep them up.” He murmurs, and the Warrior laughs against him, felt in all the places they connect. Their hand, idle at his shoulder, lifts instead to the back of his head, carding their fingers through his hair in an absent movement - they say something else, but the words are full drowned out by a flood of honeyed warmth in him, a soft sound rising from his throat as he leans full into the touch.

When his eyes open next, the Warrior watches him with an inscrutable expression; there is a fondness to it, a clear glint of interest in their gaze, and he flushes further. Before he can explain himself away - touch-starved, aching for unexpected affection - the Warrior speaks.

“Liked that, did you?”

“...An absolute understatement, but yes.”

The Warrior makes their own sound, low and considering; they reach behind them, stealing away one of the pillows from their veritable nest to lay across their lap, then watch G’raha as if he knows what they’re planning.

“Should I…?” He smooths his hand out over the pillow - he knows, now, what they plan, of  _ course  _ he does, and he cannot help the giddy eagerness that lights his face at the notion. All those years - hands at his ears, his nape, carding through his hair with all the gentleness of that solitary morning one-hundred-years past. Much else had been lost to him, but that - that had remained in startling clarity, perhaps to mock him with the unobtainable.

Yet here the unobtainable sits, expectant and fond, nodding along with his question. “Please, Raha. Let me spoil you for a change.”

He lays himself between their legs dutifully, head cradled by their thighs and the pillow alike - and with the first touch of deft, calloused hands to his scalp Raha is lost, weightless beneath the affectionate touch. They draw one hand carefully, experimentally along the shell of his ear and he groans for the entirety of the touch, a rumbling from low in his chest that is met with a fond chuckle from his lover. It takes him a long, confused moment to recognize his own purr. As quickly as the Warrior had found it, they draw it out of him again and again until the sound is a constant, rising and falling with each breath.

Where the red-going-silver is limp and curled from lack of attention beneath the heavy weight of his hood, the Warrior brushes through again and again; where the tufts of fur at the base of his ears have matted and stuck, the Warrior gently works free over the better part of a bell, ever-cautious of the sensitivity of the appendages after so long spent pinned against his head. They murmur all the while as Raha slips in and out of consciousness, in that twilight place between sleep and comfortable wakefulness where his thoughts narrow to nothing but the Warrior, their legs caging him on either side, their hands drawing soothing patterns on his face between work-throughs of his hair.

“D’you remember your first day in Syrcus?”

Raha responds with a syrupy “Mm-hmm.” and a slow nod against the pillow.

“And how I braided your hair?”

Another slow nod; then his eyes open, and a twinge of sadness takes him. The tie - that thin scrap of cloth, so treasured, had simply vanished somewhere between Kholusia and the Tempest. He had only noticed when the Warrior brushed matted, seawater-stained locks from his face, remarked on his lack of a braid - Raha had not the strength to mourn its loss then, and he does not mourn it badly now. Any lingering sadness is quelled neatly by another drag of the Warrior’s fingers through his hair.

“I do. ‘Tis a… fond memory.” They smile at his response; they don’t know the half of it, and perhaps they should know exactly  _ how  _ fond a memory it is for him, but they continue before he has a chance to elaborate.

“I’ve a confession to make. Two, actually.”

“Do you?”

“First - I didn’t actually know how to braid.”

Raha snorts out a quiet laugh. “I gathered that much when it nearly came  _ un _ tied after your bout with Amon.”

“I tried my damndest!”

“I believe you, my love.” There, another chuckle. “And the second?”

“I… Protecting you was not my… sole intent.”

An ear tips up and towards them, batting at one of their hands; his head turns that he might meet their gaze, a faint glimmer of understanding in his gaze. They look almost  _ embarrassed  _ \- and there is no way, he thinks, no way that what he had suspected was actually-

“You’ve always been  _ far  _ too handsome with your hair down. I was… selfish?” And here the  _ Warrior of Light  _ flushes, cheeks darkening by degrees. “I wanted that for myself, strange as it sounds.”

“‘Tis not strange at all. I find myself feeling much the same, where you’re concerned.” Emboldened by his new knowledge, giddy with the realization that  _ perhaps  _ that single moment had meant as much to them as it had to him, Raha’s smile is positively catlike as he reaches up to cradle their cheek in a palm. “I cannot promise not to use that to my  _ advantage… _ But rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”

The Warrior rolls their eyes, questions the  _ true _ safety of the secret if Raha intends on weaponizing it - in private,  _ only,  _ he reassures with a laugh, and they drag another hand along his ear to silence him, his eyes threatening to fall closed at the motion again. Before they can, though, he locks his eyes to theirs, gaze softening.

“I love you, you know.”

“I know, Raha.” They take his hand from their face, squeeze it in theirs. “And I, you.”


End file.
